He Said, She Said
by sara-cupcaked
Summary: It wasn't the moment they became intimate, nor was it nine years ago. It started somewhere in the middle. Based on 8x02, GSR.
1. She Said

**A/N:** A three part story, based on 8x02. Thank you Ger, for reading through it. It's my first time writing in a more risqué fashion, thoughts would be appreciated. :)  
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters below.

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**He Said, She Said.**

"I mean, when did you become intimate?"

Mental translation: When did you sleep with him?

"Two years ago. I think it was a Sunday."

Wait – not Sunday.

Saturday, 11.47pm.

She gasped involuntarily, the second time that night.

The first was caused by Grissom's state-of-the-art tap drenching her white dress, exposing her lacey cotton-candy-pink bra. Not such a good impression for the second time over at his apartment, right?

Right.

He offered her a shirt of his, a plain button down shirt that was long enough to hide her matching cotton-candy-pink underwear, but short enough to make her look like those supermodels who wore nothing but a men's white shirt down the runway in New York, Milan or Paris -

- Which was the cause of her sudden intake of air for the second time that night. She was pinned up against one of his cream walls, his lips placing kisses everywhere.

On her lips, her neck, her collarbone.

And descending.

She reached for his belt, feeling the cool metal buckle against her flushed skin. The clock behind his head documented the time taken for them to remove each other's clothing.

Her oversized button down shirt – two minutes.

His belt – four minutes.

Her bra – one minute

His black Oxford tee – thirty seconds.

"Want to bet I can take all your clothes off before 12 am?" She whispered in his ear, feeling scared and giddy and in love, all at once.

He slipped off her cotton-candy-pink underwear as an answer.

When she woke up, his digital bedside clock read 6.15am. Stretching her arms over her head on his soft grey sheets, feeling the bruises on her back, he startled her as he gently stroked her check.

"11.56 pm, last night. You win the bet."

She laughed, and kissed his nose.

Nine years of 'friendship', seven years of flirting, six years of unrequited love, four years of games, three gasps, nine minutes and one wet dress till she finally got what she wanted.

"I've already won."


	2. He Said

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

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"Okay, so when did you two, you know?"

What was 'you know_'_ an euphemism for?

It was a mental game of fill-in-the-blanks, and the ticking meter was the colour of Conrad's face. Pink means time is almost up, red means game over.

Starting from…now.

Okay, so when did you two (meet?)

Nine years ago.

Okay, so when did you two (fall in love?)

Nine years ago.

Okay, so when did you two (start playing games?)

Eight years ago.

Pink face.

Time to fast forward.

Okay, so when did you two (stop playing games?)

Two years ago.

Okay, so when did you two (start living together?)

Around the time we stopped playing games.

Okay, so when did you two (agree to get married?)

A week from now, give or take.  
But she doesn't know that yet.

_Red face._

Decision time. 'You know' _had_ to stand for 'fall in love', right?

"Nine years ago."

Ecklie rolls his eyes.

Oops, wrong answer.


	3. They Said

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI.

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"So we need to give Ecklie a 'straight' answer."

"Yeah."

They sat on the bed in silence, Sara staring at a clock, Grissom staring out the window.

"Three years ago." They both said at the same time, grinning at the memory.

--

"Hey."

She looked up from the steaming cup of hospital-issue coffee, which actually smelt rather appetizing.

"How's Nick?"

"He'll live."

Grissom, ever the optimist.

"Thank god."

He watched her intently as she sipped her hot coffee.

"I uh, talked to Ecklie. We can have our team back."

Her eyes lit up.

"Graveyard – just like the old times?"

"Plus Greg."

She grinned, lighting the hospital brighter than all those florescent lights that adorned the ceiling every two steps or so could.

"And Sofia."

Her smile didn't even waver.

It was a good sign, so he looked up from her feet and into her eyes.

"Dinner?" He stuttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want to go out for dinner? Brass said he'd take the next watch together with Catherine and he said there's this really good restaurant – they serve vegetarian dishes too – that's close Desert Palms and -"

She laughed. She actually _laughed_.

He shut up, cheeks burning red. He could only wait till she stopped laughing and maybe leave with the rest of his dignity, knowing the hospital was the least suitable place to drown himself.

After what seemed to last a lifetime, she stopped laughing.

"Let's go."

He just stared.

"You're wondering why I was laughing."

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Imagine this – Dr. Gil Grissom, CSI-three and supervisor who has interviewed his share in dangerous criminals, serial murderers, and every other knuckle head out there who thought they could get away with murder but stuttering while asking someone out. I've never heard you sound so nervous."

He smiled, feeling the relief rushing over him, calming his nerves.

"Well, some men are intimidated by beauty, or fear rejection."

It was her turn to blush.

--

"Three years ago." She repeated solemnly, nodding her head.

"Definitely."

Everyone wins.


End file.
